


Yonder Star

by inthebackoftheimpala (Wishme)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Advent, Bunker Fic, Christmas fic, Domestic, Fluffy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/inthebackoftheimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the holidays and Cas returns to the Bunker. Ezekiel has gone and Kevin demands a real Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Lily(drownedinblissfulconfusion) and Lis (clotpoleofthelord) for their superb beta work and everyone who cheered me on during the process. You guys are the best and are why I write.

November is threatening to turn into December and Ezekiel is two weeks gone when Dean makes yet another trip out to Idaho on Castiel’s tip. Castiel always calls Dean, even though he has Sam’s number, and Dean always takes it—out the door before he’s even off the phone. This time though, instead of saying goodbye at the doors of the dark Gas ‘N’ Sip, Dean asks if Cas wants to come home. His brilliant smile is answer enough and after gathering up his meager possessions from the storeroom, they hit the road.

 

\---

 

Sam sweeps Castiel into a huge hug when they get inside, totally unsurprised. After the first hunt Dean took on Castiel’s call months ago, Sam made sure that the GPS locator on Dean’s phone was on. After the second and third he and Kevin started a pool with Charlie and Garth on how long Dean would last before _finally_ dragging their former angel back to the Bunker. This time, the roar of the Impala still in their ears, Sam had looked over at Kevin and said, “I give it 5 days, tops.”

 

 

Kevin had snorted, “Not taking that bet.”

  


It actually takes a week, which means Charlie wins, but Sam doesn’t mind. Team Free Will is back together.  He notices that his brother winces when they reach out to clap each other's shoulders in greeting, which is how Sam finds out about the wound Dean took to his side and the eldest Winchester knows he’s about to get sat on by two mother hens. Kevin is sent to grab the full medical kit and Sam badgers this brother down the hallway to the small medical room off the bathroom. The steel table is cold, but sterile, and Dean’s side is stitched back together by his brother’s steady hands, Sam narrating the procedure to the hovering Castiel. He hands the needle to their friend and walks him through the last few stitches, ignoring the muttered curses from his brother.

  


“Are we done, now?” Dean bites out once two pairs of hands have sealed a new dressing over the other scratch on his chest. Sam nods and Dean stomps toward the kitchen. Grinning at his brother’s retreating form, Sam inclines his head towards Castiel and says simply, "It's good to have you home.”

  


They retreat to the living room, pointedly ignoring the slammed cupboards and muttering from the kitchen. Not too long after, Dean enters and slaps a bottle into Castiel's hand before sitting next to him on the couch. Sam raises his eyebrow and says, "So, Kevin wants to do Christmas."

  


He’s surprised when, instead of blowing it off or scoffing at the idea, Dean simply swallows his sip of beer and says, “If they’ve got angel radar, I’m sure they’ve got stuff for that around here somewhere.”

  


“I could head out tomorrow and find a tree,” Sam suggests.

  


“Take the kid with you. Cas and I take box duty. And I promise not to touch anything unlabeled.”

  


Sam chuckles and Castiel tilts his head in question. “Scales,” Dean replies and gestures to his face. “Not so much with the comfortable.” Castiel arches his eyebrow and Dean shrugs, “I got better.”

 

\--

 

By the time Dean gets up, Sam and Kevin are already gone, having left a note that says, “Mall, Tree. Be back later.”

  


The kitchen is warm and heavy with the scent of the thick, dark coffee Castiel left in the pot. It’s bitterer than Dean prefers, but he says nothing, adding his milk like normal. Their bodies curve towards each other over the table, chipped mugs only inches away. Dean makes them toast with butter and jam. Castiel decides he doesn’t like strawberry, so Dean swaps for his piece with blackberry instead. Dishes are done in companionable silence, elbows jostling good-naturedly. Their shoulders rub as they walk down the hall to their respective rooms and neither says a thing.

  
  
\---

One thing Dean knows, the Men of Letters were serious packrats. Thankfully, most things are labeled and most of the rooms are organized by themes. Holidays, however, do not seem to have been high on their list of Important Things. They find boxes of relics ( _Want a dead guy finger, Cas? All the cool kids have ‘em)_ , religious accoutrements ( _No, Dean, that’s a chalice for the wine of transubstantiation, not a gravy boat. No, it can’t be used for beer._ ), and more stuff like skulls and a full rabbit carcass, but nothing quite what they’re looking for.  Of course, it’s in the last, smallest room that they find the good stuff. Shoved under a storage shelf are a handful of unlabeled boxes. They almost miss them entirely, writing off the entire search as a wash, but Castiel insists, “We’ve looked through all the others. We should be thorough.”

 

And damn it if he isn’t right. Under a layer of yellowed newspaper are garlands of fake holly and pine, slightly dusty, but still bright. “Well, hell,” Dean whistles, “They really do have everything.”

 

The second box has a huge pile of tinsel, little candleholders to perch at the end of the tree branches and a stack of songbooks filled with carols.  The last box is heavier and tears a bit when Dean pulls it out, a lone ornament tinkling across the floor. “Jackpot.”

 

They unwrap a gilt star for the top of the tree and a veritable mountain of colored glass and plastic balls to hang on the branches. There are small wooden sleds and two seriously tangled strings of colored lights. Under those is a trio of creepy ceramic angels. They’re peach and rosy and have long golden horns pressed to their mouths, fluffy white wings tucked tight to their backs. Castiel unwraps them, setting them down deliberately, one by one next to each other. Dean forgets to breathe, watching his friend’s face. He can see the well of sadness that sits behind Castiel’s eyes, the bruises they don’t talk about. He hasn’t seen Castiel grieve, hasn’t been around to see it, and wonders if his steady hands will send those angels shattered to the floor, a mockery of an event too recent for comfort. Castiel runs his fingers over the heads of the angels, down the curves of the wings, and then reaches back into the box for the next item without saying a word.  They lean in towards each other to grab the next few items and settle like that, sides pressed together, wordlessly unwrapping colored glass.

 

A small wooden sleigh slips out of Dean’s hand to land with a solid _thunk_ back in the box. Scraping the last few layers of newspaper away reveals what looks like a solid wooden block. He lifts it out gingerly, just in case there’s other stuff lodged inside or there are any breaks in the item. It’s a stable. A few more forays into the box dislodge a cradle with a baby in it, a handful of sheep, a sleepy looking cow, what can only be Mary and Joseph, and three elaborately dressed men with packages in their hands. It’s a nativity scene, and hand-carved by all appearances. The cuts in the wood are worn smooth with care and time and the set looks well loved, even if it’s been in a musty box for a few decades. Dean sets the sheep upright, placing them next to the group of shepherds and Castiel cracks a smile, “It's entirely improbable that so many shepherds came with all their flocks. Most everyone was a shepherd in those days, you know. Base of all civilization. “ He gestures to the regal figurines, “And everyone knows it took months for those idiots on camels to arrive. They wouldn’t have been caught dead in a stable anyhow. The real thing was dark and damp and smelled like wet wool and dried blood. Gabriel described it to us in detail.” Wrinkling his nose, he delves into the next box muttering about incense and the sensitive noses of infants and ridiculous gifts, and something that sounds like “As if they couldn't have just brought a blanket."  Dean tucks the nativity away, just as happy to not have it around, because that is one creepy infant.

They uncover a box with a tablecloth and napkins, embroidered with a festive, if simple pattern. Packed in with them are sweaters and a few more candle holders and silver serving spoons. They find some nice, simple china plates—a full eight-piece setting, even—and a silver gravy boat. Under those are padded, zippered cases with crystal glassware. Dean flicks the side of one of the wine glasses, nodding appreciatively at the clear tone it produces, “Swanky stuff for a bunch of nerds.”

  


It takes a few trips to get their haul upstairs. Ornaments, garlands and a fuckton of tinsel are relegated to the living room, while the linens get tossed in the washer and dishes are dumped in the sink to be washed. No one wants to eat fifty-year-old dust. Suds rise up beyond the edges of the sink and Dean plunges his hands into the hot water. Plate by plate, he scrubs and rinses and hands the dishes to Castiel for drying. Rhythmically, they work together, swapping stories. The last dish done, Dean wipes his hands on his pants and turns to face Castiel, reaching up to wipe off a smudge of dust on his friend’s face. Neither of them moves, Dean staring at the tip of his thumb just barely caressing the rise of Castiel’s cheek, Castiel staring at Dean. The front door slams, and they jump apart in time for Sam to poke his head around the door. “We have a tree,” he grins.

  


It’s definitely a tree. It might be a bit lopsided, with a huge hole in what will be the back, but it’s got needles and it’s green and it’s only slightly shorter than Sam. So, they have a tree. Kevin wiggles under the branches to adjust the base, Castiel nodding when it’s reasonably straight. They fill the base with water and add the packet of plant food at Kevin’s insistence ( _It’s science, guys!_ ). And then there are the decorations. They argue over the tinsel _(It looks like alien poop. **Dean!** What? It does!_), but decide the colored lights are way better. (If the bag of tinsel finds itself in the trash, Dean knows nothing. Fuck those 50s decoration fads, man.) Sam makes everyone grab an end of a strand of lights and they ever so slowly untangle them.

 

Miraculously none of the bulbs are burned out and they drape them over the branches. The extras get strung up in the kitchen, not on the outside of the bunker because, hello, _secret bunker_.

  


Glass ornaments find their way around the tree, interspersed with protective amulets Sam digs up from their stash. The wood and bone and metal somehow work with the cheery lights glinting off them. A reminder that hunting isn’t just blood and death, but there’s also family and saving the day.

  


Dean makes hot chocolate and brings it out in the china mugs to the three sprawled across the couch. Kevin fingers the edge of the mug, “It looks like my grandmother’s. We always used her china for the big holidays.” He doesn’t talk much about his family, not since his mother disappeared. They avoid it, like they avoid talking about Mary and Jess. Dean’s voice is gruff when he says, “Then we will too.”

  


Kevin smiles and rolls his eyes, “Thanks _Dad._ ”

 

They all laugh and they finish their chocolate in peace, one by one drifting away to their rooms. Gathering up the mugs, Cas nudges a dozing Dean. “Go to bed. Your neck will kill you if you sleep like that.”

  


“Mrph,” Dean replies and Cas heads into the kitchen. He’s elbow deep in hot water when a warm form leans against him. He leans back into Dean’s chest, “Go to bed, Dean.”

  


“You don’t have to do that.”

“What? Dishes? There are only four—it seemed silly to leave them until the morning.”

 

“You’re silly,” Dean mumbles into the back of his head. A chuckle rolls through Cas’s chest and he shoves back against his friend, “Bed.”

  


Dean sighs and plucks the clean mugs out of the rinse water to sit on the drying rack. “Nerd.”

  


They pad down the hall together, lean against the doorjamb of Dean’s room.

  


“Good night, Dean,”

  
  
Dean licks his lips and sways forward before catching himself and stepping just inside his door, “Night, Cas.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas day means family.

Four is a lot of people for the bunker. Rather, it’s a lot for the few rooms they all happen to try to inhabit and  _exactly the same time._  So, when Garth gets a lead on a case Sam calls dibs because he’s one beer-bottle ring on his notes away from actually killing his brother. He and Kevin leave that evening in the Corolla Dean had begrudgingly fixed up for Kevin.

 

They spend two days in the library. Or, rather, they spend a day in the library and Dean spends the next one trying to distract Castiel from the tome he's translating. He wheedles, he snorts, he "accidentally" shoves stacks of books to the floor. Cas ignores him until the last when he just raises and eyebrow and sighs "Yes, Dean?"

 

"I didn't say anything."

 

"Okay."

 

He stares at the top of Castiel's head for ten more minutes and then Castiel says, "If you leave me alone today we can do something else tomorrow. Your brother needs this translation. Unless you want him to end up in the hospital again?

 

That shuts Dean up pretty effectively and he slinks into the kitchen to sulk over a beer. He barely enjoys it.

 

***

 

 

The next morning Castiel pads into the kitchen, a pair of Dean's sweatpants slung low on his hips, his hands fisted in the sleeves of a faded standard issue shirt they'd dug out of some closet. He crosses to where Dean is already pouring him a cup of coffee and thunks his head into the hollow between his friend’s shoulder blades with a "Nnnnngh."

 

Chuckling, Dean eases back from the counter, placing the warm mug between the former angel's hands and steering him to the table. Turns out Cas developed a fierce addiction to coffee while working at the Gas ‘N’ Sip and can no longer function unless he's got at least two cups of milky brew in his system. He refuses to even think about food before that, preferring to perch on a chair and watch Dean putter around the kitchen. When Dean swings by him on the way to the fridge he snags a corner of Dean's worn Bowie shirt. Fingering the soft material, he says nothing, the two of them a tableau of surprise and soft grey morning. He releases the shirt, smoothing out the crease he created over the curve of Dean's hip, then turns back to his coffee. The moment lasts thirty seconds at most, but Dean carries the warmth of it into the afternoon.

 

 

***

 

 

Of course, with Christmas comes presents and that means shopping. They’d hit the mall once before to outfit Castiel with more than the disposable hunting wear they were able to glean from Goodwill, grabbing soft sweaters and jeans, sturdy boots. There had also been that conversation about the various types of underwear that turned the tips of Dean’s ears bright pink (turns out Cas likes boxer briefs, if he wears anything at all).

 

"Welcome to the seventh circle of Hell. Also known as The Mall." Dean’s outstretched arms encompass the face of the austere concrete building. Less than impressed, Castiel shrugs one shoulder, "The seventh circle has more fire."

 

Rolling his eyes, Dean grabs Castiel by the arm and stalks towards the entrance, "Smartass."

  

They make a quick trip of it, splitting up and meeting back in the food court less than an hour later. Dean is halfway through a corn dog when Castiel walks up and visibly restrains himself from peeking into the bags. He shoves the rest of the corn dog in his mouth, his cheeks like a chipmunk, and gestures towards the door. Cas rolls his eyes as he heads out and Dean follows and totally doesn’t notice that the jeans he picked out make his friend’s ass look  _fantastic_. Nope.

 

 

***

 

 

That evening consists entirely of doing laundry and watching reruns of M*A*S*H. They’re sprawled across the couch, Castiel’s legs thrown over the arm, his torso leaning precariously toward Dean who is splayed bonelessly across his side of the cushions. A bowl of popcorn sits between them and there’s a now-empty six-pack on the floor. They drop off to sleep somewhere between Frank being an ass and Hawkeye’s laughter.

 

A phone chirps from somewhere near the vicinity of his pocket and Dean grumbles, his hand fumbling for the infernal piece of plastic. There’s a warm weight against his arm and he opens his eyes to see that they’ve drifted together while they slept, Castiel’s cheek pressing against his shoulder. A soft smile spreads across his face as he watches his friend breathe. Shielding the screen to keep the light out of Castiel’s face, he checks the text message. It’s from Sam and just says, “ETA: 8 hours.” He drops the phone back by his side and relaxes against his friend. Castiel makes a small noise in his sleep and settles closer. Dean lets his head rest on the messy mop of his friend’s hair and slips back into dreamless sleep.

 

 

***

 

 

Frost covers the grass the next time Dean wakes up. He stares out the kitchen window, coffee in hand. No forecast for snow this year, but Dean can’t help but hope that maybe next year he’ll be able to show Cas a real snow. Go all out too, sledding, snowball fights, the whole nine yards. The thought of Cas managing a snowball fight like he does chess games stirs a glow in Dean’s belly that lasts through Castiel’s morning grumpiness and their morning coffee ritual before they head back to the couch to bicker over TV shows. Somehow Dean has failed and Castiel had developed a love for reality TV. If left to his own devices he’d marathon Project Runway and Toddlers & Tiaras and never sleep.  They strike a bargain—for every episode of Amazing Race they watch, they watch one of Dr. Sexy.

  

It's late afternoon when Sam and Kevin spill through the door. The prophet makes a beeline for the showers while Sam fills them in. They'd spent more time researching the thing than fighting, a simple blessed silver blade ending the drama. Garth had insisted they stay the night and apparently makes a mean goulash. "I invited him for Christmas," Sam admits.

 

"Fine. As long as he leaves that damn sock at home.” Dean shudders at the memory.

 

After dinner they turn on the lights on the tree and chat. As the conversation winds down, Dean bolts upright and snaps his fingers, “I almost forgot.”

 

The other three look at each other, confused, until he comes back from his room, small wrapped packages in hand. “Christmas spirit,” he says and hands one to each of them. Paper flies and for a moment there’s stunned silence. Then Kevin cracks up and Sam quickly follows. It pulls that stupid little grin out of Dean, the one that shows up when he’s proud of something he’s done. Sam holds up his ornament, a moose with a santa hat with big bubble letters underneath spelling out “Sammy”. “You’re absurd, you know that?” Dean just grins and swings his own Impala ornament with his name in script at his brother.

 

Kevin hangs his garishly-bright gingerbread man opposite the tree where Sam has placed his, “I am not edible, for the record,” he says as he reclaims his captain’s chair. Sam ruffles his hair and the prophet takes a pointed sip of beer. Still silent, Castiel stares at the two in his hands. One is a giant sock monkey with “Cas” in bubble letters. The other is smaller, more fragile, a glass cloud with stars hanging off of it and a chubby baby with wings curled up on top, with “Baby’s First Christmas” engraved on the side. Dean thinks he’s  _hilarious_. Castiel places the sock monkey front and center on the tree, pointedly ignoring the other. Dean snags it off the table where the former angel left it and drops it into his hand.  Castiel’s scowls at it until Dean bumps their shoulders together and hooks his fingers through his friend’s belt loop, “Oh, come on. It’s adorable. And anyway, it  _is_  your first Christmas.”

 

It is true and Castiel finds he can’t, and really doesn’t want to argue, turning to study the tree seriously. The cloud goes near the top, next to the translucent blue orb that’s become Dean’s favorite. For some reason the lights seem to glow a bit brighter. Yeah, Christmas is  _awesome_.

 

 

***

 

 

Christmas Eve Charlie bangs on the door, bringing more than her share of Christmas cheer. She wrangles Kevin into helping her hang mistletoe and the stockings she freaking knit for each of them on the mantle and making small “taste” batches of increasingly strong eggnog that she requires them to try. They all get a bit tipsy and she winks at Dean when he and Castiel get remotely close to one of her ninja mistletoe arrangements. Neck flushed, he scowls at her, which sends her careening with laughter into Kevin, who thankfully just set down his full mug. ABC Family has a marathon of the Harry Potter series and the evening drifts away in conversations about the potential usefulness of “alohomora” and invisibility cloaks.

  

Early the next morning Jody shows up to torture their hangovers in the way only a mom can. She’s brought pie and a few sides and wrangles Kevin into helping her wash the china and polish the silver she brought with her. Krissy and her gang show up a few hours later, at a more reasonable hour to be alive and they’re conscripted to help in the kitchen. Christmas might have been Kevin’s idea, but Dean embraced it, well the food part of it, and ran. More food than they can possibly finish rolls out of the kitchen. Ham and potatoes au gratin, green beans and cornbread, fresh rolls Garth made from scratch, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, candied yams and cream spinach. And, to top it off, Jody’s pies with Garth’s famous vanilla ice cream. They eat until they have to roll themselves into the living room to watch “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” where everyone promptly falls asleep, except for Dean, who sits on his chair, just looking. This is his family, weird though it is, and like the night they flicked the lights on the tree for the first time, the bunker just seems brighter, warmer, with them in it.  Krissy and Josephine are pillowed on each other on the couch, Kevin and Garth snore from the floor, and Jody, ever composed, has just the right amount of space on the loveseat.

 

Castiel, however, is all scrunched up on an armchair, forehead furrowed in sleep. Dean pads over and pulls the blanket tighter around his friend. Stirring, Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s, murmuring “Thank you.”

 

Moving to head to his room, Castiel’s hand tightens on his own, startling him into meeting the surprisingly clear eyes of his friend. “Dean, I mean it,” Castiel insists. “For all of it. Christmas, sharing your home and your family. Being my family.” He’s earnest and Dean burns with it, dropping his gaze. “’S no big deal.”

 

“Dean.” Cas reaches up to cup the side of his face. “It is. Look at the family you’ve created. It’s remarkable.”

 

He shifts and Dean can’t look anywhere but at his stupid blue eyes, and lips. “Dean.  _You_  are remarkable.”

 

The space between them seems ridiculous and then it’s gone, lost to press of lips and warm breath. It’s warm and soft and it’s like coming home. Something inside Dean loosens and he slides his hand to cradle the back of Castiel’s head, threading his fingers through his hair. Finally, breathing is a thing and they lean back, catching their breath in short gasps. Dean keep his eyes closed because what if Castiel hated it and what if he just fucked everything up and then Castiel slides a thumb over Dean’s cheek and whispers fondly, “Dean.” And Cas is smiling, all soft and affectionate. The ball of warmth in Dean’s belly expands and he dips his head to catch Castiel’s lips again and it’s still perfect and let’s be real, this is  _fantastic._  He breaks the kiss and offers Castiel his hand, pulling him up flush against him. They stand there for a moment, hands clasped before heading down the hall to Dean’s room.

 

 

***

 

 

Charlie knows first just by the way they swing into each other’s space the next morning,  standing just slightly closer together than usual as they make coffee. When Dean’s fingers brush Castiel’s hand for the umpteenth time, she crows “Ah-ha! I  _knew_ it!”  Pointing at Sam, she grins, “You, kind sir, pay up.”

  

Kevin mutters something about it being too early for this shit, and Sam just groans into his coffee about idiots taking  _long enough already, Jesus_. Dean colors, “Could you not?”

 

“Dean Winchester,” Charlie says in fake shock, “are you  _flustered_?” which kicks off a round of teasing from everyone and Dean turning three shades of pink darker. Cas rolls his eyes and kisses him, just once and very chaste, and it shuts everyone up. “Seven years, Dean,” he growls “This is hardly surprising to anyone.”

 

Krissy gags, “Ewww, old people  _kissing,_ ” and it’s back to normal. She gets a noogie the next time Dean gets up to get Castiel a cup of coffee and he might grin to himself because, you know what? Yeah, it might not be traditional and it might be small, but this is his  _family._ He presses a kiss to Castiel’s temple when he sits down, waving off yet another round of teasing. It’s declared the kids’ turn to clean up and he and Cas disappear down the hall to cheers.

 

Once the dishes are done and left-overs are doled out in a truly impressive number of Tupperware, it’s time for everyone to head out. Krissy and her crew head out first, followed by Jody and Garth. Charlie sticks around to help Sam fuss over some new tracking software and then she too hits the road.

 

Her lights disappear around the bend and Dean tightens his arm around his angel’s waist. Things are pretty good, all told. Merry Christmas, indeed.

 


End file.
